


Lessons in Friendship 6 - Danger Night

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Series: Lessons in Friendship [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Doctor John, Gen, John Takes Care Of Sherlock, Past Drug Use, Sedation, Self-Harm, Self-Medication, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:49:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3736372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place when Sherlock is back from the dead (after being away a few months, not years) and reunited with John and they live together at 221b again. But the aftermath of the fall is catching up with them (my version of the future does NOT include the possibility that John might get married).</p><p>This was originally published October26 th, 2013 and finished November 18th, 2013, since back then Season 3 haden't been aired it turned into AU the moment S3 came out. That's why Mary is not in the picture, yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's POV 1

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made. 
> 
> I was in desperate need of comfort this week so I wrote this. Not much new in it, just some h/c. 
> 
> First three Chaper shows the events from John's side, the fourth and fifth the same events from Sherlocks POV.

 

 

John sat in a lovely Italian restaurant with his date. It was the first time in month, in fact, it had been before Sherlock's faked death that he had done this. While he was mourning Sherlock - thinking he was dead - he hadn't even been able to do normal things like shopping or laundry properly, so dating had been the least thing in his mind.

His PTSD had come back full force the day Sherlock had jumped off that roof and John had been lost in depression worse than after Afghanistan.

It had been about two months since Sherlock came back, but the aftermath was still heavy on both of them. John's limping had come back the day before Sherlock's funeral and had stayed insistent even though Sherlock was back now.

His wound up soul somehow had problems accepting the fact that he had back all he needed. It was like he didn't dare to believe it, still anxious Sherlock could vanish at any moment. He was afraid that it all was just a dream and he'd wake up and realise Sherlock was still dead… He didn't dare to accept it yet.

The doctor tried to hide his symptoms again, not wanting to confront Sherlock because he knew his flatmate was also suffering from all that surrounded the events. Sherlock was no longer talking enthusiastic and without pausing like he had been in the past. John doubted that anything had ever shaken the man as this had. John could see he was hurting, too… He'd even said the man was suffering from depression… they both were… and they both were waiting for all of it to get better, now that the most important basic requirement was already there, they both reunited in working and living.

But Sherlock used every method there was to avoid talking about it. Often he behaved like he had when they had solved their first cases, insulting, ignorant, distant, and quite self-centered. When John tried to talk about the fall, his faked death or how they both felt he just ignored the doctor or even hid in his room.

Sherlock had - directly after he came back - told him why he decided to vanish and how he had spend the months until his return. John had understood the decision but was still angry for not having been included, and that it had taken Sherlock so many months until he came back. Ever since that Sherlock avoided the topic. John had even tried to drag him to one of his own therapy sessions but Sherlock had made a scene and refused to go. So, in the end, John had gone alone.

The therapist advised him to seek some contact outside of work and the flat. She encouraged him to go on a date or do things he liked, so, here he was, a few weeks later, having dinner with his date. The past week had been difficult and it was the first time he left the flat for days.

He and Sherlock had had a quarrel a few days ago… well, quarrel was not the right word. John had a kind of emotional outburst because all that had happened was kept inside for too long and had been festering in a part of his mind for weeks. Not able to speak to Sherlock about it made him worse.

The fact that Sherlock had come back was the best that could happened to him, but he still was having a hard time to deal with it emotionally… and after Sherlock made another sarcastic remark about the benefits of being dead John had bombarded him with a dress down. John literally had exploded and had yelled at him how bad it had been and how much he still hurt and that he still had the urge to punch him at least once a day for doing that to him… Espacially after they had been through that before - Sherlock recklessly reawakening John's PTSD - in Baskerville.

John had put his hurt and sorrow and the past month's daily agony into words and vented on Sherlock. He even told him how he had wanted to end all his agony and how far it got until he stepped back (though he had, back then, actually decided he'd never tell anybody about that evening). But John was far to angry to hold back and he wanted Sherlock to feel that it had really been bad, and quite a harming thing, to keep him out of the loop, and how he was retraumatised (he hated to admit it, but that was what had happened according to his therapist). John knew it was only half Sherlock's fault… the main part was Moriarty's thing. He was angry Sherlock had risked this to happen instead of preventing it.

The detective listened to all he unloaded, several times looking as if fighting his own emotions, but always covering them up before they could really surface. But he never said a thing during the whole episode. John had yelled until he got hoarse and the emotional stress had made him dizzy. With filled eyes he had retreated to his room before he'd have started crying in front of Sherlock. He had needed the whole night to get a grip on his anger.

 

Nightmares had followed and the subsequent days were difficult and silent. Sherlock was barely talking. Whatever he felt, it was carefully hidden.

When Lestrade had called they had work to do and slowly things normalised. John had hoped their episode was almost over then, until the case was solved. Sherlock had been only a bit worse than his usual self while it lasted, insulting, impatient, yelling at Anderson and making biting remarks several times.

After the case Sherlock became worse, withdrawn. At first John speculated Sherlock was angry with him for his emotional outbreak or for his lack of empathy how bad it had been for the detective to hunt down Moriarty's men… or ungrateful… or whatever, but after a few days he started to suspect Sherlock might at least partly have another problem.

He got a proof at Bart's the other day. The expression on Sherlock's face when they had neared the building was almost as if he tried to ignore the sight of it. He seemed to retreat from his environment and reality, gaze empty and lost.

His glanced up to the roof and his eyes were so full of disorientation and disgust John wondered if they should better get home fast. But Sherlock had hidden it as soon as he felt John's look, though he hadn't been able to hide his paleness and his clenched jaw, it had followed him for the rest of the day.

John then realised that he must feel bad about it somehow, but he was still to angry to… forgive him.

 

Another case followed and things normalised a bit more again. Though several times John felt reminded a bit of the episode Sherlock had had when he thought Irene Adler had died. He seemed to walk in a bubble quite often, like he was only half present and his mind kind ob… absent? He missed input he usually wouldn't have (noises, his mobile ringing, someone talking he was actually listening to), even looked spacy sometimes, like he was on autopilot. John wondered if he himself looked like that when he had a dissociation-zone-out, as he called it. From then he monitored Sherlock for signs of more problems.

John hoped that it would get better when the case was over and his flatmate would start to eat and sleep a bit more. But when the case was finished Sherlock didn't start sleeping again… except for some short naps on the sofa. Though he started playing his violin for hours without pausing.

John had the distinct feeling something emotional had piled up in Sherlock, too, and his friend was neither understanding what was happening nor was he able to do something about it. He tried to talk to him several times but all he got for his efforts were unnerved and hurtful comments or doors in his face. Since he was emotionally pretty bad himself he decided to just wait until they both got a chance to unwind a bit.

 

A few days later the atmosphere in the flat had gradually relaxed, Sherlock had eaten at least one meal a day. John hoped this was a first step on the road to recovery for both of them. So when he had the chance to have a nice evening out he took it.

They had a delicous dinner, though a bit too much small-talk for John's taste.

When they were almost finished with the dessert John's mobile rang. At first he thought it might be Sherlock disturbing his date, he had done that quite often in the past. But he'd usually text, even if it was important… he looked at the display: Mycroft.

Now, this was unusual… possibly even bad. He answered the call while giving his date an excusing smile. She didn't look happy.

"John?" Mycroft asked before he had the chance to say anything.

"What's wrong?"

"John, we missed a danger night, I fear…." Mycroft informed, his voice taunt.

"Hell, no… What happened?" John's heartrate sped up unpleasantly.

"Not sure yet. I'm on my way, but I'll need at least 12 minutes to get there."

"Oh, god… I'm on my way!"

John stood up, his date looking up flabbergasted.

He grabbed his wallet and put a note on the table.

"I'm sorry, medical emergency, I have to go." He grabbed his jacket and was out of the restaurant thirty seconds later, the line still open.

"What happened?" John asked urgently, starting to ran towards Baker Street, leaning on the crutch with one hand, holding the mobile with the other.

"I don't know, he injected something…."

"How do you know if you're not there?" he wondered and cursed that making a phonecall while running was difficult due the noise, and that calling his hasty stumbling _running_ was much too friendly.

"Surveillance equipment, John."

"When?"

Baker Street was only a few streets away.

"About six minutes ago. No signs of an overdose until now, though. He's sitting on his bed." Mycroft's voice was slow as usual but sounded distressed. "Do you know what might have stressed him today?"

"Well… the past two weeks have been kind of… difficult, but… He had an episode, it started three days ago, not talking for about 36 hours, playing his violin six hours straight… I stayed at home because of that. Was better… today, though. Have you called… an ambulance?" John panted. He was around the corner from 221b now.

"No, Sherlock is usually much to accurate a mind to overdose… though he nevertheless managed to do some direful day years ago… But as soon as he shows any signs I will. They have been alerted to shorten the response time in case help is necessary, though."

"Good, bringing him to a hospital with this would devastate him."

"You have no idea… and that's why he'd be brought to a private facility if necessary."

"I'm at the door, see you soon."

He fumbled with his keys and opened it, running up the stairs in panic. He slowed down as soon as he entered the flat, he didn't know why… maybe not to cause any exaggerated reactions.

He threw his jacket on the counter while passing it and headed for Sherlock's bedroom. The door was closed and he opened it carefully… holding his breath.

John saw his medical bag open on the floor.

Sherlock was on his bed, sitting against the headboard, his head hanging and listing slightly to his right. His eyes were open but he only blinked owlishly when John knelt in his line of sight. He looked bad, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot and swollen.

"Sherlock?… Dammit!" John felt anger rising.

A small tray Sherlock usually used for his experiments was on the bed, on it a used capped syringe, some alcohol wipes and a vial that looked like standard hospital issue.

"Sherlock!… What the hell have you done?"

Sherlock blinked, as if he only now registered John was there. A slightly alarmed look crossed his face.

"What the hell did you take?" When Sherlock didn't answer John turned towards his bag and fetched a pen light and his stethoscope. He knelt on the bed next to Sherlock, but this disturbed the other man's balance and he started to slowly sag sideways.

John caught his dazed friend, not too gently, his anger was showing in his movements and he reminded himself to be a bit gentler. He went ahead and felt Sherlock's neck for his pulse, not too bad, only a bit elevated. Then he carefully manhandled him back into a sitting position, fetched some cushions and stuffed them to Sherlock's sides to prevent him from listing again, he wanted him sitting upright for the time being.

When he examined his pupils Sherlock moaned softly, they were reacting a bit sluggish and were dilated. He unbuttoned the shirt and Sherlock's lack of resistance made his worries climb up to the roof. Sherlock's heart sounded not too far from normal.

"What did you take, Sherlock?" he reached for the vial and read the label.

His eyes widened. This was not at all what he had expected…

 

 


	2. John's POV 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made. 
> 
> This story was betaread by Graveofthefireflies! Many thanks to her expertise.

 

 

His eyes widened. This was not at all what he had expected.

It was… a sedative, a _non-opioid_ sedative, the same medication which John had given him a few months earlier* to be exact.

"Did you take something else than this?… Sherlock!… answer me, dammit!" John shook his shoulders. Sherlock didn't speak, but an expression of agony crossed his face and his eyes looked as if he was about to have a breakdown, but then returned to an unemotional mask.

"You wanted to knock yourself out?… Why?…Come on, Sherlock, answer me!" John urged.

But Sherlock only followed his movements slowly and was obviously hovering in a state of semi-consciousness.

"How much did you take?" John lifted the bottle into the light, it was from his bag and it didn't look as if there was much missing. He inspected the syringe. It was small, for use with insulin, but the needle was big enough for intravenous injection.

He took Sherlock's arm, the sleeve still half up and a tourniquet hanging loosely around his elbow. He had injected it intravenously then. Good, predictable outcome that way. Only one needle mark… also good. The other arm? He unbuttoned the cuff and rolled it up… none, good, thank heaven.

"How much did you take? Answer me!" John reached to the back of Sherlock's neck and tilted his head back to look into his eyes.

Sherlock slowly blinked again, his gaze blindly scampering through the air.

"Sherlock, tell me… please…" he begged, holding Sherlock's head gently in both hands now, looking into his eyes. "Please tell me…" The doctor knew his own face was wet with tears now. Some of his distress must have reached the detective because he drew a stuttering breath and opened his mouth.

"'wo seesee…" Sherlock slurred.

That was not really much, in fact it was a regular dose to send a patient into relaxed slumber, with Sherlock's resistance it would be the exact dose to bring him into this half-asleep state, it had failed to knock him out before, even though now he hadn't slept properly in days.

"You took something else?"

Sherlock minutely shook his head. John's guts had twisted painfully with the idea Sherlock had taken drugs a few minutes ago and he felt the tension vanish partly.

"Why?" John let go with one of his hands and took his wrist feeling for his pulse, his gaze falling onto Sherlock's fingers, his fingertips were bloody, every single digit on the left hand, dried blood, it had run down his fingers. God, he played that violin until his fingers had blistered and then until he started bleeding? That must have taken quite some time and it must have hurt. What the hell…?

"I guess he took it to prevent himself from taking something else after he ran out of energy to play his violin, doctor." Mycrofts voice came from the door.

"What?" John didn't understand, he let go of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock closed his eyes in what might have been a slightly unnerved reaction to the presence of his brother and tried to turn his face away.

But Mycroft rounded the bed and stood upright on the other side, still with his umbrella in his hand and looking down on him.

"For some unknown - but lucky - reason he choose to render himself unable to execute taking anything else… Probably he was fighting his urge to take some other drug and found he couldn't any longer, so he played the violin, knowing that as long as he wouldn't stop playing everything was fine. But at some point he couldn't go on with that, and then he took something that would render him unable to administer anything else… But if he carefully made sure it wouldn't knock him out, anxious to be haunted by his demons in his sleep or if he miscalculated the dose, remains unclear. Is that correct, Sherlock?"

"Leav'm'lone," Sherlock started to move around, most likely to escape his brother's gaze.

"I will soon. If John determines that you're not in danger… We should assist him into a laying position, doctor."

"Dontouch'e.. wannasit" Sherlock sounded unnerved.

John took his shoulder and helped him down the bed, Sherlock didn't want to lay down but he was too uncoordinated to prevent the professionally guided movements. Mycroft luckily decided not to interfere.

"So, will he be alright?"

"If what he says is true and he only took 2cc of the stuff he'll be fine."

"I'm pretty sure he's telling the truth. Lying is not his thing, at least not to us, not even with the matter of drugs. But let me check something."

He dialed and left Sherlock's bedroom.

"Ehhh, Sherlock… you gave me quite a scare, here… Don't do that… please…" John felt beaten now that the crisis seemed to have passed.

"'m sorry…." Sherlock mumbled. And John's eyes widened - had he really just heard Sherlock apologising?

"Is it true? Did you take the sedative to render yourself unable to take something else?"

Sherlock hesitated but then closed his eyes and nodded minutely, looking almost ashamed.

"Why?" John wanted to know why he had felt the need to take anything at all, the reason for it all.

"Couldn't harm you. Hurt you so much… already… the fall… 'm sorry."

John's jaw dropped… Had he just been given a brotherly proof of love… attached to another apology? Silence settled in the room and he just stared at the figure laying in front of him. He pressed his lips together.

God… First running home thinking he might be dying, then finding him semi-conscious and now… this… somewhere in him the urge to cry and release the tension that had built up the past week rose, but was kept small by force.

"Is that… what stressed you in the past few days… being faced with how I hurt about your faked death?" Yeah, he had wanted to make Sherlock understand and face it. He wanted him to know how much he hurt… He had the impression that his friend had stopped caring again in these long months were he was gone. That he didn't care at all any longer. That all they had gained in their friendship was lost or buried somewhere. He knew the time away had been bad on Sherlock, too, but now John was the one faced with the fact how much it had affected his friend… obviously a lot more than Sherlock had let to the surface. John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock again.

"I hurt you by throwing all that at you?" John asked, leaning closer.

Sherlock didn't say anything, just pressed his lips to a thin line. He obviously tried to hide it but his breath came harder and his eyes filled and John feared he was about to have a meltdown… but then his eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled back… Oh, dammit, he must be so overexerted with his emotions and with suppressing them that they were playing havoc on his body in earnest now.

Sherlock's head rolled slightly sideways but some tension remained, telling John he was still fighting against sleep desperately. He also had started trembling.

Dammit, this was so not good, but at least John was pretty sure this was a mental problem, not a physical one. Nevertheless he took Sherlock wrist once more and checked his vitals.

"Shh… It's okay… Relax… I know you feel bad right now, but it will pass. You'll be fine… Relax…" He hoped Sherlock would fall asleep an get some rest, but realised it was probably futile.

Sherlock was presumably pretty much uncomfortable with the sedative alone right now, in both mind and body, the emotional stress on top of it must be devastating, let alone Mycrofts presence.

He took the used syringe and the other stuff from the bed and stored it in his bag.

Gently, he removed the tourniquet from his arm and pulled the sleeves down, Sherlock was very tense and his pulse was still fast. The doctor took his BP and decided to attend to Sherlock's fingers later.

John stood up, taking a deep calming breath. His hands folded on top of his head and breathing deeply several more times to regain his composure. While trying to come up with something that would comfort Sherlock Mycroft reentered the room.

"He indeed seems to only have injected one dose according to the surveillance camera's recording," Mycroft confirmed.

Sherlock stirred when he heard the voice and seemed to fight his way back to consciousness.

"Tha's whata… said, now cul' you please b'gone… badnough t'know you monit'ring m' bedroom, do I've to endure you'resence 'lso?" Sherlock managed slightly annoyed.

"Huhu!" a distant voice called from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson was back from visiting a friend and must have seen everything lit up.

"No…" Sherlock whispered.

John started to head towards her, but Mycroft raised a hand, nodded and left the room.

John returned to sat down on the bed and held Sherlock's wrist again, not only to monitor him but also to comfort him.

"What you did was the right decision. I'm really glad you did manage to do this instead of taking something far worse… And I know how much you hate the state you are in, and how bad you must feel right now, and that you did it nevertheless… to protect me. I appreciate your course of action… You can take pride in this, you know."

Sherlock said nothing, not even showed he had heard.

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock ignored him.

"Tell me how you are, please." John gently rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's pulse point.

"Lousy."

"You need anything?… What can I do?" John was slightly astonished Sherlock allowed his touch.

"Get rid o'Mycroft and keep M'Hu'son out."

"I'll do my best. You're o.k. here for a minute?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed.

John stood up and went to the kitchen where he could hear Mycroft und Mrs Hudson talking.

 

 

"… he's not well, he needs to sleep," Mycroft just explained.

"Oh, dear… Good evening John…. I'll make some tea. You look like hell…" she filled the kettle.

When John saw her he was reminded of an idea, they had a few weeks ago.

"Have you finished making that blanket we planned?"

John had asked her if she could sew a therapeutic weighted blanket about a month ago, after he had heard of those for the first time. The things were expensive, but while looking for sellers he had found several tutorials that explained how to make them. He had asked their not-housekeeper if she was able to make one if he bought the stuff. She had read the tutorial with him and decided this was a really good and lovely thing and that they'd make it as a present.

It had been kind of funny to go to a store to get the items with Mrs Hudson… A store that actually sold stuff to make life-like baby-dolls, funny thing, he had never heard of those before. The displayed hand-crafted dolls were awesome pieces of artist-work… they had gotten the stuff about two weeks ago and hadn't talked about it since.

"I finished it last weekend, why?"

"I think about giving it to him now."

"But I thought we wanted to give it to him as a birthday present?" She wanted to know.

"Yes, but he's in need right now and I think he'd adopt to it far better by… using it now and feeling the effects… If we give it to him on his birthday… as I know Sherlock he'd need months to be convinced to even try it and then… well, the chance he accepts it now is higher this way I think."

"You're probably right… understanding my dear brother more than he does himself, doctor?" Mycroft added with raised brows and a kind smirk.

"Yeah, you're getting pretty good at it, he's right," Mrs Hudson said.

"What?" John was taken aback a bit.

"It was a compliment… not a lot of people had the will or time to do that for him and I think he's better with you than he had ever been before. What exactly did you make?"

"A sensory-friendly weighted blanket, used in the therapy or treatment of persons with sensory issues, ADHS, anxiety disorders, Aspergers, Autism and several other… Google it if you are interested. He reacted good to being… eh… I had him stuffed between firm rolls of blankets a few month ago when he was beaten by those maniacs… You remember?"

"Yes, he was pretty messed up, I saw him a few days after that."

"Well, I didn't know it would do him as good as it did. The idea to make him feel better that way just came into my mind and I tried… I also needed to prevent him from moving too much and make him feel safe, that was the result. It calmed him more than anything I ever saw. I decided to find out if it was a known thing or just Sherlock-specific… Well, no matter what it is I found those blankets, they are filled with small plastic pellets and weight about ten percent of the patient's weight. Ask Mrs Hudson or Google, I want to go back and see how he's doing. "

"You're right, not telling him all that and just use it might help on him accepting it," the older Holmes stated.

"I'll get it," Mrs Hudson switched off the now boiling kettle and went downstairs.

John prepared tea but Mycroft dismissed the offer to have a cup.

"I need to get back to the embassy, soon. You had a fight?"

"Well… I fear a few days ago I threw my frustration at him about… about… his faked death… and because he seemed not to care at all how I felt about it." John didn't even wonder how he knew.

"Oh, he cares… I have never seen him so… bad… with anything in his life before. I think I'd even call it… sick, with emotional distress. He has lost a lot of weight, not only because he didn't eat a lot, but at a certain point his body repeatedly refused to keep it down. I couldn't convice him to see a doctor. When he had taken care of Moriarty's men he wasn't even able to make it back to London by himself. I picked him up and he collapsed, due to exhaustion and malnutrition, before I was even able to make him tell what had happened. My private doctor took care of intravenous nutrition and kept him asleep for days, otherwise he'd problably… well, he's better now. But the whole thing was a world-shattering experience for him. I was worried 24/7 that he might start to take drugs again. He started smoking though, but stopped a few days before you reunited… I thought the danger had passed when he moved back in here. I think the only thing that kept him going was to know he had saved all of you and that one day he would come back," Mycroft informed, now his usual self again.

John rubbed first his forehead and then his eyes with his right hand, trying to hide the tears that were forming again.

"Hell… and I rubbed salt into his injuries… I was just so…" he stopped, realising he didn't want to spill his guts in front of Mycroft. He wouldn't understand and he wouldn't help. He needed to tell Sherlock he was sorry for his lack of understanding. He knew the detective buried his hurts, the severe they were the deeper he buried them. He knew Sherlock was not able to let his pain go, or out, or whatever would help it heal. He just didn't know how to do this, he hadn't learned.

"Why didn't he say so?"

"He's Sherlock… he can't… you know that."

"Hell, yes… I know… I should have been… I was just so…"

"I know, John…" Mycroft sounded astoundingly understanding.

Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, slightly panting, the blanket in a laundry basket.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, I forgot it's quite heavy."

"It's okay, dear," she handed the basket over. "I guess it's better I leave you to do this alone, right? Uh, I wish I could see him tugged in…"

"I know, but I don't think this is a good idea right now, he is not in the best of moods, I'll tell you in detail later… Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson."

"Glad I could do him something good, see you in the morning… Good night," she headed downstairs.

"Good night," Mycroft added and nodded towards John, "Call if you need anything."

"Night," John echoed and Mycroft also vanished.

He took the basket and went back to Sherlock's room.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This refers to my story 'Keeping the panic at bay'


	3. John's POV 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

When John entered the room Sherlock was lying on his right side staring towards the window. His breathing was agitated though his face wore a mask of perfectly calm. John rounded the bed and put the basket down on the floor in Sherlock's back, then returned to Sherlock's line of sight. The duvet was crumpled and half under him, he himself was not covered.

"How are you doing?"

"Regretting…" Sherlock whispered.

"That you didn't take something… recreational… or that you took the sedative."

"Latter…."

"I know this feels pretty bad for you, but be assured again I'm really grateful you did this the way you did… I don't know if I could live with the fact that you'd died from an overdose… or watch you take drugs again," he bit his lip.

Sherlock had, of his own free will, done something he had some real issues with: being rendered helpless was more than distressing for him and the state between sleep and awake held horrors* to him John could only vaguely imagine, especially in the hurting state he was already in currently.

The one occasion Sherlock had spoken about being half asleep had given John goosebumps. To say Sherlock was haunted by demons in that state was pretty applicable, to be haunted while he was vulnerable even worse.

John had had to sedate Sherlock before and had been a bit appalled about the horrors that he had seen in Sherlock's eyes while fighting the effect of the drug. It took a higher dose than usual to knock him out. The normal dose would only send him to the state he was in now. The doctor wondered if he should knock him out for his own good but decided it was a last resort. He'd try several other things first, like make him feel safe, make him understand he was sorry and that he wasn't angry anymore, make him feel… not alone.

"Mrs Hudson and I went through some trouble to make something for you…" he started, feeling a bit… he didn't know how to describe it. Motherly?

Well, it had been fun, doing this, he was just afraid Sherlock might hate the thing, especially when he found out it was for therapeutic use. So he tried to evade an explanation of what exactly it was and wanted to convince Sherlock to like it before he found out. Yeah, so much for the theorie. If he decided he liked it he'd stick to it, no matter what he learned later, John hoped.

"God, I feel like a knitting grandma," he tried to loosen the situation. "We had a good time making a blanket we thought you'd like."

Sherlock lazily lifted an puzzled glance up to John, who was still standing in front of the bed, looking at him with a worried expression.

"Mrs Hudson had a lot of work with this and wanted to make something special for you."

John went back to the basket and lifted the blanket out, it was heavy, really heavy, and not easy to drape over the lying man, he figured before even trying. He piled it lengthwise behind Sherlock's back, planning to then gently drag it over him, when Sherlock interfered by trying to roll onto his back to see what he was doing.

John stopped his movement and rolled him back on his side again gently, then carefully letting the thing settle down on him instead of dragging it over him.

Sherlock didn't resist but frowned.

"'s heavy…"

"It's supposed to be."

"Why…"

"Because that feels good."

"'kay."

John rounded the bed and sat down in front of Sherlock on the edge.

His flatmate looked beyond exhausted, the past days taking his toll. The blanket covered him up to his shoulders.

"You need to sleep, Sherlock… Just sleep."

"No," he whispered, a pained expression on his face.

"Are you in pain?" John saw it, wondering in alarm if the blanket was not good or too heavy or if Sherlock had hurt himself somewhere else.

Sherlock only grunted softly, there was no answer in the noise.

"Sherlock, where do you hurt?" John tried again.

"Slight headache."

Well, that didn't surprise John at all. Sherlock looked as if he had had a crying fit for hours, though he doubted Sherlock ever cried alound. Well, crying or holding back crying for hours were both reasons to get headaches, both ways not pleasant.

"Anywhere else?"

"No."

John bent over him slightly and rested his hand on his hairline, putting gentle weight there, too. He didn't want to cover parts of his head with the blanket.

"I'm sorry, too, Sherlock. I know your decision to fake your death and the consequences were hard on you, too. I shouldn't have yelled at you the way I did. I'm sorry. I know you long enough to should have known you're not able to wear your feelings on your face and that it does not mean you don't have them… Why didn't you stop me when I threw all that in your face?"

"Des'rved it…. "

God, Sherlock had been in a slightly self-harming mode for weeks, John realised now. Barely sleeping, barely eating, he was not doing those to be able to concentrate better this time, he was punishing himself… as was he with his sarcastic remarks, and probably playing the violin until he bled, hating himself for all that had gone wrong and all his weaknesses that Moriarty had used against them.

"…and… didn't wantto do'r say… 'nthing wrong… 'gain."

"Oh, hell…" John had his right still on Sherlock's forehead and rubbed his own eyes now with his left one. They needed to work this out, but not now, later. He didn't know what to say, concentrate on the present, he decided.

"Okay, I want you to rest. You are beyond exhausted and I want you to feel safe. And I want you to know: the fact that you are back from the dead is what I need most… and I want you to know that you are loved and needed here… How do you feel under that blanket?"

Sherlock hesitated, probably not able to find appropriate words.

"Like… safekeeping."

"Good… I think the last thing we both need right now is alone and hurting… I'll stay here and you'll feel save and sleep… I'll wake you in case you have bad dreams, I promise."

John started to press his thumb - with slight pressure - down on Sherlock's third eye point.

Sherlock did some deeper and harder breaths and John interpreted his facial expression as one of ease. The pressure was good for headaches and good for relaxation. He pressed a bit harder and Sherlock sighed soundlessly and his jaw unclenched.

"Don't fight it…. " John soothed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *See my story 'The mystery of finding sleep' for a closer look on that issue.


	4. Sherlock's POV 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made. 
> 
> Many thanks to my betareader Graveofthefireflies!

 

 

Sherlock had only been able to keep going (these past months while he was in hiding) because he knew he would get back to John, to the flat, to Mrs. Hudson and to his life again when this was over. The decision to fake his death had strained him more than anything before in his life, at least he had believed that until he _was_ in fact in hiding. But _then_ seeing John mourning for him had proven to be far worse than the decision had plagued him before. Whenever he thought it couldn't get worse it was doing exactly that. He realised that, always, no matter how bad things were, they could be far worse.

He had expected the whole thing to be difficult, but he hadn't thought it'd have such an impact on him… and far worse… on John.

Every single night he spend hiding and chasing Moriarty's men, he felt different than he had ever before, a whole set of unknown sensations causing unsettling feelings.

What was it that made the world feel different suddenly?

He had spend hours in ponging little hotel rooms fighting something that felt a bit like hunger… he even tried eating in order to get rid of it. However, the desperate need for something stayed with him. Sherlock had no idea what was missing until he noiced that he spent quite a lot of time thinking about John, remembering his voice, his pattern of movement, and his sarcasm when Sherlock had been his usual self. The thought of John was constantly resurfacing in his mind, distracting him.

Several weeks after his 'death' he finally realised this was probably the feeling people labeled as 'missing-somebody'.

Didn't feel good, store it away.

It was hindering his concentration, which was hindering his work, which was hindering the progress, which made the time until he'd see John again lengthen due to slow thinking and delayed action.

A few hours later he perceived that not only it was lengthened, but also his perception of time seemed to stretch. Twenty-four hours felt longer than they usually did.

This was new, too. There was a word for this…

He remembered _normal_ people didn't feel time passing in a constant way but slower and faster, depending on what they were doing, weren't they? Was it that what he experienced right now?

Marked for further observation.

A few days later in Paris, he felt the urge to use his laptop to see what was happening in the flat. He had suspected Mycroft had the flat under surveillance and when he asked him about it, and how John was doing, Mycroft had told him about the cameras and to look for himself.

Mycroft had been firmly against keeping John in the dark from the beginning, his only argument to keep John from severe hurt and being retraumatised. Sherlock had been convinced John was strong enough to get over it and that there wasn't a chance he could get as bad as he had been after Afghanistan from this. And that it would all be forgotten once Sherlock would be back.

That night, when he watched the camera feed on his laptop, he - for the first time - started doubting what he had been so sure of before. John sat in his armchair when he logged in, just sat there.

Five minutes later he still sat there, hadn't moved a bit…

Sherlock showered, when he came back John hadn't moved.

Three hours later and John still hadn't moved, just stared ahead.

Camera broken? Stuttering transmission?

When watching more concentrated he saw John breathing, equipment working fine then.

Sherlock left the connection open and another two hours later John frowned and stood up. He looked bad, thin, haunted, even sick.

 

A week later Sherlock had watched John every night, trying to bring the feeling of John's company into his hotel rooms. He was now sure if he was desperately missing his company, because when he tried _not_ the use the live feed he felt… on the edge, even more than usual these days. When he tried to ignore it, it came to him in regular intervals of a few minutes… He couldn't think of anything else then… the feeling started to unnerve him, but it was by far not the only new confusing sensation he experienced with unsettling intensity during these weeks of hunt and separation.

This was ridiculous. He wasn't able to suppress his feelings?

Now, when did this happen?

He had to work harder on distancing himself from this, it would do no one of them any good if he didn't manage. He was already under the impression that his mind was a lot slower than it used to be. He realised that he had problems keeping his concentration up and frequently got lost in his thoughts.

 

One day, when he saw John standing in the middle of the living room, after he had found one of his cigarette hiding places under the sofa by accident, he watched John have an episode.

He had never witnessed something like that before. This was when he seriously doubted John would get over this unharmed.

At first John stood in front of the sofa, with the box in his hand.

He opened it.

Sherlock saw his face crumple.

John stood there, just stood there, staring ahead, tears running down his face, though he didn't make a noise…. Until a deep breath made the dam break and he started sobbing.

Sherlock stared at the screen.

The hurt evident on John's face made something inside him change, it felt disconcerting only at first… then John swayed and sagged to his knees, obviously trying to lower himself before falling.

Sherlock wondered if he was hurt… then realised he _was_ , but not physically, mentally… by _him_ … by being kept in the dark.

John was shaken by his crying now and he let himself fall to the carpet, only to lay there for hours, trembling with sobs.

Sherlock felt something violent erupt inside him, he wiped the laptop from the table in anger… It smashed into a pile of debris… Something making him nauseous and he ran to the bathroom throwing up… That hadn't happened in ages.

This event had shaken Sherlock and he was angry with himself for his mind to betray him with this emotional sensations, chemical defect… He wanted it to stop… He couldn't understand it.

He ordered Mycroft to make Lestrade and Molly look after John. Molly knew he was alive, since she had helped to organise it, Lestrade didn't. So, he bought a new laptop and configured it to watch the camera feed, not able to ignore it.

John seemed to do little else than sit in his armchair, or on the sofa, and stare ahead.

Depression… severe depression. He needed to hurry, John was getting damaged…

 

It took another two weeks (in which he kept the live feed on 24/7) for him to finally recognise that he was maybe slightly depressed, too.

It happened when he once more saw John in an agonising nightmare on the sofa (he almost slept as little as himself) and John started to cry helplessly in his sleep. He was obviously relieving their final phonecall, calling out for Sherlock.

It was the first time Sherlock actually had real tears running down his own face since he had stood on that roof. Twice within eleven years… That was _not_ good… and it was even within a few months.

And then it had even happened a _third_ time.

John had been sitting at this bed, his gun in his hand and stared at it… for about two hours.

In panic Sherlock had called Mycroft as soon as he understood what he was staring at, and ordered him to get there, but when he did thirty minutes later John had already knocked himself out with four large glasses of whiskey which he had gulped down within seventeen minutes.

Sherlock watched helplessly whilst John downed the liquid and then continued to stare ahead, paralyzed by fear.

Then John put the gun down on the bed and just sat there, swaying slightly.

About a minute later he had passed out and slid from his bed to the ground… that was when Sherlock had kind of a breakdown, too.

He threw up twice that night.

He hadn't eaten, so it must be a mental thing, he deduced later, chances high the vomiting a few days ago had the same cause.

Maybe his disgusting imprecise thinking was also a result of a light depressive episode?

Whatever it was, the next day he decided again that he needed to work harder to put a lid on this. It was contraproductive to suffer from those feelings. He told Mycroft to have an extra close look on John and erased the software that enabled him to watch the life feed.

Twenty hours later he regretted it but stayed firm.

 

Days went on, everything was just… bad. He almost slipped back into his drug habit. For days he fought the urge to take the stuff he had already bought. Just hanging on to the thought how additionally bad John would be if he came back with an addiction. It would be difficult already, he had understood that finally during the past few days… realised that he had hurt his friend. He should have listened to Mycroft and let John in on the plan of his fake suicide.

Finally he managed to hunt down the last of Moriarty's men he knew of, he took a severe beating before he managed to shoot the man in self-defense.

Mycroft picked him up about four hours later, distraught by his appearance.

Sherlock barely made it into the car before he passed out, from exhaustion, and grief, and the pain of several minor wounds, and relieve.

Mycroft had forced him to rest and recover for five days until he let him go back to 221b and tell John.

That had been two months ago.

In these two months Sherlock had watched John's PTSD in full bloom. It became a constant in their reunited lifes, ever-present.

John had lost a lot of weight, he himself had too, but that didn't count, he had been working hard, nothing psychosomatic there.

John's limp was worse than ever. He had nightmares and sometimes fled to his room before Sherlock would see the tears in his eyes or his panic attack, but Sherlock knew.

Sherlock wondered why he had ever been so stupid to believe that when he'd come back everything would be as it had been before the fall.

He knew he had damaged their friendship.

Another setback… he had caused it… by denial, by ignoring important facts.

He had done exactly what average people did, he should have know better than to see only some of the facts and ignore those he didn't want to consider for his conclusion.

He had denied that John would get hurt severely by this, refused to believe this might cause another PTSD episode, hadn't considered how much grief would harm his friend… and he even had to admit it had damaged himself more than anything ever had in his life…

He felt… wounded… harmed…and somehow different.

During these first weeks he saw how John was suffering even though he obviously put a lot of effort in hiding it. Sherlock was sure this would vanish sooner or later and they had just to hang on until it did.

But then John started to show signs of needing to talk about it… and it was hurting John not to speak about it. He had never understood how talking about a thing should ease the hurt or the problem, this was total nonsense from his point of view. Though he felt like something was trying to suffocate him whenever John started such a conversation. It felt a bit like panic, but less paralysing and more like physical pain, though he couldn't locate it.

The day John tried to drag him to that stupid therapist he was on the end of his tether. When his flatmate had finally gone alone, he sat on his bed with the vial in his hand, staring at it, fighting his urge to use it.

John had come back fast (only in his perception, it turned out later he had been gone for two and a half hours) and Sherlock had quickly hidden the vial and the unused syringes when he heard him coming up the stairs.

 

A few days later John finally lost it. He screamed at Sherlock and accused him of hurting him and threw everything at him that he had obviously kept at bay the past weeks. Sherlock felt overrun and overwhelmed by John's anger, which was aimed at him.

He knew he had hurt him, he knew it was a mistake, he knew he had been an asshole, he knew… but having it shouted into his face made it even worse. Guilt made his stomach churn, it was both, a physical hurt and a mental pain John's episode caused in him.

He felt like he had ruined everything good he ever had in his life… he feared for the friendship and felt himself trembling.

Did John might not want him back after his betrayal? He deserved to be shouted at like this, deserved to be hated for what had happened and that he had been too dumb to foresee it and too slow to prevent it.

John had vanished into his room and Sherlock had heard him cry for a long time before he calmed down. He couldn't go to comfort him, though for days he had watched John crying on the life feed and had wished he could at least _try_ to comfort him. But now, that he just had to do the few steps to his room he found he couldn't.

It made him feel useless, like a coward. He was a bad choice for a friend. Had he

done John any good by coming back or was he better off without him?

 

The first case after being back had been introduced by Lestrade. He came to the flat and asked them both to come. They did. Sherlock had hoped it would help John to feel better, but it didn't.

Maybe John should take his meds again.

Sherlock tried to encourage him to do so on the taxi ride home when the case was solved. The doctor told him to piss off when they entered their home… he had never done that before… it had felt raw and sore to be told that… by John.

 

Two days later they had to go to Bart's for another case.

Sherlock dreaded to go there. He already feared it would feel bad… but it turned out to be even far worse than expected.

He had expected John would be unsettled with it, but in fact, _he_ was near loosing it himself.

The doctor seemed his usual withdrawn self, as he had been in the past days.

Was it that, what John had criticised about him a long time ago, that he wasn't caring?… Was it now John who wasn't caring?

It felt kind of… disgusting when John was like this… A question that popped up in his head quite frequently these past months reappeared.

Was it what others felt when _he_ was… not caring?… But he had a good reason not to care… He remembered, when he had been a teenager and after too much hurt and being exploited and taunted, he had decided to not care anymore. It had taken some time before he was able to do so, but he had managed.

Well, mostly… He cared about a few people, but he had let them in, fully aware he wanted to care about them… Was it like _that_ for others to feel shut out?… Had John felt shut out?…

He felt tired staring at the building, started to drift.

He just wanted everything back to normal. Was the chance for that gone?… Had he destroyed it himself?

He watched that roof from down the street, something in his mind shifted… It happened without him realising it at first, he withdrew… into an emotionless bubble, stunned by too much sentiment, once again. When he found out it was happening, he didn't fight it.

Better to feel nothing until everything got better than hurting every single minute of every single day… He was already exhausted. Helplessness and guilt added into that and he slipped into a kind of an autopilot. It was necessary as the pain that he desperately tried to ignore was distracting him, pilling up and making him uneasy.

As soon as they were home Sherlock reached for the violin and began to play, in hope for a different kind of distraction… soothing and comforting.

 

Then, a day later, John told him he'd be out for tomorrow evening. Sherlock didn't know how to feel about that.

Not nice, afraid that John would prefer living with somebody else in the long run? Or simply not being well with the thought of being alone?

Violin!

The nearer John's date got the more uneasy Sherlock felt… Something else piled up somewhere.

While playing he lost concentration on the notes again and again. Something making him seek this kind of panic-avoiding-solution.

Play… just play… Until the uneasiness faded… Until the urge to make all the feelings stop faded…. Until he was so exhausted he could actually sleep…

He played…

John passed several times and said something, but he needed to concentrate on nothing else than to keep going until the danger was past.

What danger exactly?… He felt the urge to feel pain… He wished to be in so much physical pain it would be all he could sense… or to sleep until he felt better… or to knock himself into not-feeling oblivion…

He went on playing….

He barely noticed John dressed for his date and left.

Had it been really 36 hours since he started playing?… No, couldn't be… John would have screamed at him if he had fiddled all night… time was gone… _one_ alleviation at least… he was probably just going for groceries.

Seven compositions later John had not come back, it was dark outside.

Sherlock wondered if it was the evening with his date… He felt alone… it was unsettling… The air felt different when John wasn't there, he realised for the first time, felt like that hotel room. The emptiness accumulated the more he analysed it.

It was grey with nasty large splashes of a pale dirty mud green. The flat looked as if scratching… he needed to play and concentrate on it... it was hard.

He wanted it all to pause… the hurt to pause… his head ached.

He felt like everything pressed in on him… Pressure rose and with panic he realised the need for a numbing haze accumulated.

No, he needed to play…

How long would John be gone?..

Usually, he was back around midnight… he looked at the clock… two and a half hours until that.

He played some more difficult pieces, hoping it would distract him more.

So tired….

He had blown it… everything good in his life destroyed… was gone… Moriarty had taken care of that… he _had_ burned him, indeed, them both… hadn't expected it to feel this bad.

He had failed… failed to solve the case, failed to protect John… failed to make it all okay.

The urge to feel pain came back full force… The violin would not countervail for even another hour. He needed _not_ to feel… it would get really dangerous if he continued to… He needed relieve or he would snap… He knew he was trembling…

No… How much longer would he be able to stay upright like this?

He had felt his thoughts turn towards the vial constantly… He wanted his agony to end… that was usually a solution.

While he still played he thought about why not just doing it. John wouldn't know, he was too much busy with his own hurt… And he'd be clever enough to hide it. Or wouldn't he?… John had understood far more about his thoughts in the past than anyone ever had, sometimes to an annoying level… But he had already blown it. Could he do more damage? There was no point in crying over spilled milk… He needed to clean it up… and make John better.

Panic caught up with him when he realised he just didn't know how… again… That was the fact which's awareness was so bad…

His thoughts circled and circled… until he was aware of nothing but the mental agony… and his wish for it to go away…

The violin fell to the armchair when he stumbled towards his room… he was barely able to walk and stumbled into the kitchen's doorframe.

He needed the agony to vanish.

He took out the vial from his secret hiding place and held it to the light… it was full… Enough oblivion for a week…

He realised he wanted to take it… he went for the syringe… When he unwrapped it something changed… The air felt different again… more agony added… but it was a different kind of hurt… it threatened to choke him… This was not only liquid forgetting for him, but it was also… it might hurt John… He needed to make sure John didn't find out about this.

Would John check on him when he got home?… Maybe not if the evening was nice… John hadn't been out for a long time, so Sherlock didn't know… thought when he came back from the store or his therapist the first thing he did was to make sure Sherlock was still there.

Sometimes Sherlock wondered if John needed to convince himself Sherlock was back and alive.

So, this was pain-relieve for him, but pain-cause for John.

He didn't want to hurt John… he had hurt him enough… hurting him was in fact the cause for all this to be as bad as it was…

He was about to do it again?…. Oh god, his thoughts were doing maddening circles… He felt dizzy. His throat hurt… he'd go insane if this went on any longer…

Alternatives?… !

No, he couldn't play the violin any longer….

No, he couldn't call Mycroft… he wouldn't understand… and he wouldn't be able to help.

Panic rose….

The only thing that would keep him from taking the drug was to render himself unable to administer it. But… the only thing he could think of to disable himself was the drug itself…

Great!… No, there were other pharmaceuticals to do the same… John had knocked him out with meds, when he had been beaten some time ago. It was a rather bad experience to surrender to the medication but John had eased the path a bit, though he had hated it.

Maybe this was the only way to accomplish the task of not taking _his_ variation of killing the pain. John had the sedative in his bag… The bag was under the wardrobe next to the stairs… He needed to get it!

He stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the counter - that one was gonna leave a bruise.

He was on his way back to his room with the bag, had decided this was the course of action.

No, his autopilot had…?

Sitting down on his bed again, the vial with the sedative now in his hand…

Was it this one? Why were his fingers red?… Not important right now!

He searched the bag, there were only two other ones and those were still sealed.

How much was the right dose?

He read the small instruction sheet.

Well, if 1,5-2cc would be the normal dose he might take 2 to make sure… the last thing he needed was for this to fail to work, making him turn to the other stuff again… Just know how to trick yourself, he smirked sarcastically while putting his vial back into the hiding place to make sure it wouldn't be easy to get - in case he wanted to turn towards it.

He filled the barrel… and almost slipped from his bed's edge when another wave of dizziness hit him, this time accompanied by nausea… He stumbled to the door and closed it, then fetched his tourniquet from the drawer.

He needed to sit back somewhere. He put the full syringe onto a small tray with the alcohol wipes and sat back onto the bed, leaned against the headboard. Lifting his legs on the soft surface made him feel he was hurting all over. He leaned back, closing his eyes.

This was the right decision, he did this to protect John.

Was his strain of thoughts wrong, again? All the things he had decided to use to protect John had hurt him in the end… No, he needed to sleep, priority one was just _not_ take _his_ stuff.

He rolled up his sleeve… and wiped his crook, wrapped the rubber tube around his arm and tightened it… this was better injected intravenously for fast effect, he remembered.

Hurry, evade chances for mind-change, don't thinking about how bad it'll feel in a few minutes… just go on, just do it… with the practiced ease he inserted the needle into the vein and pressed down the plunger. He hurried to cap the needle and put it back on the tray, then fumbled to loosen the tourniquet.

 

 


	5. Feeling Safe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made. 
> 
> Many thanks to my betareader Graveofthefireflies!

  

After injecting the sedative Sherlock tried to remember how long had it taken back then - when John had administered it - to work?

Long… It had been a horrible long few minutes.

Panic swapped over him again, he leaned his head back.

Would it work faster if he wouldn't fight it?

No use… Didn't know how _not_ to fight, he'd fight as soon as he'd feel it starting to work… out of reflex.

It will be bad, brace for it.

His breathing came faster now.

No way back. Just be passive and let it happen.

He needed to endure this. For not hurting John his discomfort was a small price, he tried to convince himself. He hoped John was having a nice dinner and - he felt his eyelids become heavier… and his breathing sped up.

Relax… sleep… Maybe it would be easier to sleep when laying down flat.

He tried to shuffle down the bed but his limbs were getting uncoordinated.

Had it been like this when John had given _it_ to him?…

He had been already in a supine postion back then… and been given a muscle relaxant.

It took more effort to breathe.

How could he have been so stupid doing this… Why hadn't he just went on with the violin?

His eyelids drooped a bit, but as already feared an automatism kicked in and shot adrenaline through his system, jerking his eyes open a bit more again.

Concentrate on trying to sleep… Slow down breathing… Relax arms…

Cold…

Why hadn't he…?

No use, the duvet was under him and he wouldn't manage to get himself covered. Ignore inputs…

Wipe consciousness clean of distracting thoughts.

Relax legs… Something hurt… His head?… Hands?

No, everything hurt… Throat… Even is eyes.

He looked at his hand… it was still red. He lifted it with a lot of effort up to his eyes and frowned, it was blood.

Now, where did that come from?

He rubbed his hand over his eyes… His face was wet.

For God's sake, he was a mess, had he locked his door?… Didn't matter, he was too weak to get up again… He needed to relax…

Why couldn't the stuff work faster?… This was torture.

The room started to spin and he hoped he'd pass out soon.

He tried to distract himself by listing the states of the US in alphabetical order in combination with their capitals… Europe was just too easy.

Nausea interrupted his distraction and felt miserably.

Maybe he should move into the recovery position. Might be better, he might throw up.

While he concentrated on trying to slid down on the bed he thought he had heard something in the kitchen.

Couldn't be… too early.

A louder noise startled him and when he was about to panic about possible intruders he blinked and saw John was in front of him.

Oh good, no intruders… Oh, not good… This already was bad enough, without John seeing it.

He blinked again, hoping John was just an imagination of his half drugged mind. But he started talking in a pretty stressed voice and touching him.

He must be already pretty much out of it… he couldn't make out the words John said, not only his vision was blurry, his hearing was also.

He winced when light exploded in his eyes, it caused his head real pain.

Something touched his chest… then his neck, he wanted it gone and been left alone.

Why couldn't John let him sleep?

"…did you take, Sherlock?" John's distant voice entered his haze, "Did you take something else than this?… Sherlock!… Answer me, dammit!" John shook his shoulders, which caused his head to explode.

"You wanted to knock yourself out?… Why?…Come on, Sherlock, answer me," John didn't leave him alone.

Please, he just wanted to sleep now.

"How much did you take?… Answer me!"

John grabbed the back of his neck and tilted his head back to force him to look into his eyes. The touch felt rough and he tried to move away, but was too weak.

"Sherlock, tell me… Please," John begged, he held Sherlock's head gently in both hands, this felt…

he felt his privacy invaded… John would know that… he wouldn't do it unless… Why was John looking so panicked?

"Please tell me," John begged in a choked voice, his eyes started to water.

It took Sherlock couple more seconds to understand.

John didn't know what he had done and why, though for Sherlock it was quite logical… Maybe his friend was afraid he had surrendered into his old habit?… Or maybe even tried to commit suicide?

Was that what John was thinking?

Nonono… He needed to tell him.

He took a deep breath and tried to answer, but only a voiceless moan escaped his mouth, he tried again.

"Two cc," he finally managed.

"You took something else?" John pressed further.

Of course, he wanted to make sure he didn't mix it with something else.

He managed to shake his head, then saw the worry partly leave of John. The doctor sighed and his shoulders relaxed a bit.

"Why?" John asked, but he couldn't explain that… it would hurt… He couldn't stand any more hurt right now.

"I guess he took it to prevent himself from taking something else, after he ran out of energy to play his violin, doctor," Mycroft's voice came from the door.

Of course, his room was under surveillance! Stupid! He should have known that.

Though this information kind of stung, too.

Sherlock felt how John gently laid his head back and removed his hands. He wanted to turn away and curl into a ball, but he was even too weak to lift his arm. He closed his eyes, trying to escape this situation by slipping into sleep, but he felt that Mycroft rounded the bed and stood there looking down on him, it was embarrassing.

"For some unknown - but lucky - reason he choose to render himself unable to execute taking anything else… Probably he was fighting his urge to take some other drug and found he couldn't any longer. So he played the violin, knowing that as long as he wouldn't stop playing everything was o.k. But at some point he couldn't go on with that and then he took something that would render him unable to administer anything else… If he carefully made sure it wouldn't knock him out, anxious to be haunted by his demons in his sleep, or if he miscalculated the dose, remains unclear. That correct, Sherlock?"

Mycroft got it right, fast and annoying as usual. At least he wouldn't need to try to explain it now, though this was making him feel ashamed, being read like a book with extra large letters.

"Leave me alone," Sherlock tried to turn away, but couldn't manage. Mycroft suggested to help him into a supine position.

"Don't touch me. I want to sit," Sherlock dreaded being touched by Mycroft right now. He just wanted to be left alone.

Then John's touch was back… he took his shoulder and guided him down the bed, skilled by routine, dragging at his hip and waistband.

He tried to drift off by will, but the adrenaline still prevented it. They were talking, but he wasn't listening…

Maybe just ignoring them would make them leave.

"Ehhh, Sherlock… you gave me quite a scare, here… Don't do that, please," John sounded hurt and vulnerable, scared even.

Sherlock forced his eyes open again. Mycroft was gone.

Thank heaven.

Though John worried him now.

His flatmate looked pale and… he needed to… yes, what could he possibly say to make him better?… Nothing… It was him, that made him worse.

"I'm sorry…" Sherlock felt guilty for John's misery and the suffocating feeling was pressing down again, he felt like child, his thought-processes so superficial and repeating over and over for weeks, no way out, no release.

"Is it true? Did you take the sedative to render yourself unable to take something else?"

Sherlock hesitated, but then closed his eyes and nodded minutely, feeling ashamed, but that was exactly what he had done.

"Why?"

"Couldn't harm you. Hurt you so much already… the fall… I'm so sorry."

"Was that it?… What stressed you the past days? That you were faced with how I hurt about your faked death?" now John sounded a bit guilty, "I hurt you by throwing all that at you?"

Sherlock didn't want to answer that. He felt his eyelids dropping… the medication was working.

Not, now!

He knew they were on a crucial point in this conversation, he couldn't sleep now, dammit!

Fight the stuff!

He felt like it was hard to breathe.

Was this because of the meds?

No, he felt like panicking… Exertion… He needed to force his sentiment down… He needed to… Something was raising in his chest and making it and his throat burn again… Simultaneously his head felt like he was about to explode…

What was happening?… Was he about to cry?

No way!

He clenched his jaw and fought the feeling away with brute force… Then the effort exploded and the blast left him disoriented… He felt himself floating, the strain blown away.

What had just happened?

His mind was kind of blank, like in the state between sleep and being awake… his muscles had relaxed a bit without him allowing it.

Autopilot had taken over?

No.

He refused to believe it.

No!

He fought not to slip into sleep, desperately now, it took more energy than before.

Blurred sounds indicated John was talking, he tried to focus on it.

"…it will pass. You'll be fine… relax…"

That didn't sound as if John was very angry with what had happened tonight.

No, this felt like being cared for…. But he didn't deserve it…

Mycrofts voice dragged him out of his dark haze of shame, and confirmed his room was under surveillance…

Oh, couldn't he just go away?

"Now could you please be gone… It's bad enough to know you're monitoring my bedroom, do I've to endure your presence also?" Sherlock was getting unnerved.

"Huhu!" a distant voice called from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson.

"No." Sherlock whispered in desperation… He wanted to be alone… not to be seen,

Hide… alone… no witnesses for his weakness.

He felt John sitting down on the bed again and taking his wrist. His touch was soothing… he wanted to let go but… John spoke.

"What you did was the right decision. I'm really glad you did manage to do this instead of taking something far worse… And I know how much you hate the state you are in and how bad you must feel right now and that you did it nevertheless…to protect me. I appreciate your course of action… You can take pride in this, you know."

So John approved his course of action… he didn't hate him for it… Why not? He hated his weakness.

"How do you feel?"

No need to answer that one.

"Tell me how you are, please," John stoked his wrist, dragged his senses back into his body that were constantly drifting.

When he reflected how he felt it would get worse, he knew it would… he didn't want to feel even more… this was the point of the whole thing… stop feeling… but John deserved an answer… John cared.

"Lousy," he didn't need to listen to his body to know that.

"You need anything?… What can I do?" John asked.

"Get rid of Mycroft and keep Mrs Hudson out."

"I'll do my best. You're okay here for a minute?"

Sherlock managed to nod and he felt John leave the room.

Note: take larger dose next time… No, prevent a _next time_ at all costs!

He decided to sleep now, again… and tried to turn onto his side to make breathing easier.

It took several tries to accomplish the task.

After a few breaths he realised it was not easier to breathe like that.

He managed to get back into the drifting state.

"How are you doing?" he was interrupted for the umpteenth time.

"Regretting…" Sherlock whispered, a bit frustrated.

"That you didn't take something… recreational… or that you took the sedative?"

"Latter…" or at least not a high enough dose.

"I know this feels pretty bad for you, but be assured again, I'm really grateful you did this the way you did… I don't know if I could live with the fact that you'd died from an overdose… Or watch you take drugs again," the doctor paused, "Mrs Hudson and I went through some trouble to make something for you. God, I feel like a knitting grandma… We had a good time making a blanket we thought you'd like."

Sherlock managed to open his eyes - he wondered if he was already asleep, not understanding what was happening - Grandma? Blanket? What???

John looked at him with an apprehensive expression.

Had he said something stupid himself?… No, hadn't spoken.

"Mrs Hudson had a lot of work with this and wanted to make something special for you."

John vanished from his line of sight and rummaged on the bed behind him, it was unsettling.

Sherlock struggled to roll to his back again, to see what he was doing.

But his movement was stopped, gentle but firm hands rolled him back onto his side.

Then slow pressure started… and increased…everywhere… Made him disoriented until he realised he was being covered by something. He expected to feel bad, but the pressure turned out to be… dark blue and not warm, but… surrounding.

"It's heavy," he mumbled, heavy in a good way…. It seemed to take the weight from his body, though this was nonsense… He knew it pressed onto him with extra weight… This was not an ordinary blanket.

"It's supposed to be."

"Why…"

"Because that feels good."

"'kay."

Yeah… John was right… It felt good… Odd.

His muscles started to relax on their own. He felt cocooned… again… kind of like… hidden…

"You need to sleep, Sherlock…. Just sleep."

"No…. "

Didn't want to. What was when somebody else came in?

"Are you in pain?… Sherlock, where do you hurt?"

"Slight headache."

"Anywhere else?"

"No…"

John sat on the bed and bent over him slightly, rested his hand on his hairline, putting weight there, too. It caused a sudden a wave of - he didn't know what, but it rushed over him - it was like… no words to really describe it… but it felt the safest he had felt in a very long time… Maybe even ever?…

It made pant with the new feeling, he was far away from being able to describe it.

"I'm sorry, too, Sherlock… I know your decision to fake your death and the consequences were hard on you, too. I shouldn't have yelled at you the way I did. I am sorry. I know you long enough to should have known you are not able to wear your feelings on your face and that it does not mean you don't have them…. and that you use sarcasm to cover your hurt…. Why didn't you stop me when I threw all that in your face?"

"Deserved it… and… didn't want to do or say anything wrong… again."

"Oh, hell… Okay… I want you to rest. You're beyond exhausted and I want you to feel safe. And I want you to know the fact that you're back from the dead is what I need most… And I want you to know that you are loved and needed here… How do you feel under that blanket?"

Still no appropriate words, though he finally was pretty sure it was good.

"…like… safekeeping."

That, at least, described it a bit… and it felt mentally warm without physical heat… holding him in a neutral way-

"Good. I think the last thing we both need right now is alone and hurting… I'll stay here and you'll sleep… I'll wake you in case you have bad dreams, I promise… We've done this before…"

Sherlock felt the pressure between his eyes increase slowly. It felt odd… almost as if the thumb was entering his skull and erasing the hurt.

At first he tried to fight it, but then he felt his body welcoming it - getting very heavy… and doing things of it's own - he was afraid it would prevent him from breathing for a moment.

"Don't fight it…" John soothed.

But Sherlock did… until he willed his mind into trusting John and do what he wanted for hours now… not to feel any more…

The pressure increased some more and it was as if someone had switched off something… Like with an endorphin rush something washed over him again, starting from his solar plexus going up and down like a circular golden and warming wave…

What was happening there?

All tenseness left his body, making him feel like gently sinking backwards into a large, warm, dark, cozy bathtub… taking him into floating…

Oh, god, this was almost as good as feeling the first rush of his favourite drugs starting to work, no, maybe even better.

He hadn't known there was a possibility to feel this without the chemicals…

How had it happened? Did John cause it?

It had happened before - though different somehow - he remembered… but then decided to just take it as a good thing and relax into it.

Another wave of the feeling rushed over him and took his consciousness away.

 

  **John's POV**

 

"Don't fight it…" John soothed.

Sherlock blinked slowly… and blinked once more.

Then John could feel how he gave up fighting when slowly his eyes closed and two breaths later his whole body went heavy and sagged deeper into the mattress in relaxation.

John had seen this before. Sherlock falling asleep was a struggle. The medication eased and sped up the process, but John could see once more what an effort it was for him to let go.

His breathing was shallow, then stopped, it took almost 45 seconds until he took the next breath, if John hadn't been waiting for it he'd missed it, it was minute and shallow. After another 30 seconds his breathing regulated itself and got deeper, the breathing reflex had kicked in.

With another soft sight the last tension left Sherlock's body. Now the doctor knew he was asleep.

Well, that was a lot easier than he had thought. Maybe this blanket was worth the work they had put into it.

When he was sure Sherlock was completely out he hurried to fetch his book, a sweater and some sweat pants for the night.

For about two hours he sat next to the bed on a chair and read, Sherlock slept without moving.

Then he decided he needed to sleep, too.

He could get a few blankets and sleep on the floor or he could lie down on the bed in Sherlock's back on top of the duvet with another blanket.

He opted for the last one. He himself needed Sherlock near for a while…

To feel that he was alive and breathing and… there.

That way he'd also know when Sherlock was having a bad dream fast.

He brought a blanket and then sat on the bed for another hour, reading.

Finally he just slid down and was asleep within minutes, the fact that Sherlock was alive and nearby soothing him enough to relax into sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End note:  
> I read one chapter (14. Empathy) of one story from the writer Ashtrees after I was given a kind review to one of my stories (thank you so much), haven't read any more than that one chapter, yet, because for now. I feel I need to stay away from any Asperger's or Autism topics/information, to keep my observations untainted from outside influence, since I'm waiting for an appointment to get diagnosed myself. I'm waiting for almost two years already, that's how long it takes around here.  
> But I'll start reading such things in the future… after the diagnosing-process is finished.  
> Nevertheless, in Ashtree's story a weighted blanket was mentioned. Since I haven't heard of those before I googled it (almost nothing about it in german)… and got caught with the idea. Well, I made one last week, not easy to get the stuff. Now, the thing is finished and it's great!!! (The profile picture shows a part of the blanket, quilted with glow-in-the-dark-thread).  
> Thank you soo much for the idea Ashtrees!
> 
> Please leave a comment!


	6. New work in this series

Hey,

I just wanted to announce I posted the next story in the series to everybody who is interested.

Thank you for reading. :)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if my English is a bit strange sometimes, I am not a native speaker.


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